Peace in Unlikely Places
by awkwardacity
Summary: To create peace between the remains of the Hale pack and the Argent family, Claudia Stilinski - the Hale emissary - and Chris Argent create a treaty which changes the course of everything. Or the Claudia Stilinski lives and everything is drastically different because of it AU. 3/15 - Countdown to Season Six


From his window, Stiles can see the flames.

They jump and dance, tendrils curling intricately around each other and reaching high above the trees. Smoke clouds what was once a clear, moonlit sky.

The source of the fire is far into the preserve, but the flames burn with the ferocity of writhing, feral animals, an intensity that he knows can't be natural. The colours seem to imprint themselves on the backs of his eyes, and even when he squeezes them shut and turns away- they're still there behind his eyelids, dancing their sick and flickering dance.

His mother doesn't let him near the preserve. "Dangerous creatures lurk in the shadows, _kochanie_ ," she says. "They wait for little boys to wander in alone so they can eat them whole."

It doesn't stop him from doing so, though, and he knows the terrain like the back of his hand. He knows that the mass of fire burning brightly in the distance can be nothing other than the huge house nestled close to the north clearing - the one that the Hale family live in.

When he strains his ears, he thinks he can hear the mournful howling of wolves carrying on the wind. Which is ridiculous, of course. There haven't been wolves in California for almost sixty years.

It's about three in the morning, and Stiles has school tomorrow, but there's no way he could sleep even if he tried. His own house has been a hive of activity ever since the flames blossomed about an hour ago, followed closely by the screech of sirens as his dad left to deal with the emergency.

His mother is downstairs, arguing remarkably loudly with at least two other voices. He can make out nothing more than an indistinct stream of chatter, but it's loud enough that he can tell the tone of the voices. The strangers: worried, tense. His mother: angry. Furious, even - he doesn't think he's ever heard her like this before, not even when he accidentally smashed her Venetian glass vase three weeks ago.

He has no doubt it's no coincidence that this argument and the fire are occurring on the same night.

He's just weighing up the merits of attempting to sneak to the top of the stairs to listen to the argument when there's a knock on his door. He spins so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, his eyes zeroing in immediately on the girl loitering awkwardly in the doorway.

She's about his age, maybe a year or so older, with black-brown hair that reaches halfway down her back in a wave of curls. She's wearing all black, her clothes form fitting and sports-like, so he almost misses her in the darkness of his room. There's a red alice band holding her hair back from her face, the only splash of colour on her form, and it conjures the image of Little Red Riding Hood to the forefront of his mind for some reason.

"Who're you?" he demands suspiciously, edging back slightly towards his window. He learned a long time ago how to escape through it, so he's ready to move at any second.

The girl grins in a bashful, embarrassed sort of way, and he can't help but notice how her cheeks dimple as she does so, and her hair falls forwards past the alice band as she tips her head forwards in an attempt to hide it in the shadows.

"Well?" he demands again, and her cheeks burn bright red.

"I'm Allison. Allison Argent." The girl sticks her hand out awkwardly for him to shake, the way his father taught him to make friends when he went to kindergarten (he didn't ever use that technique, not that his dad knows - it's probably why he doesn't have many friends).

He eyes her hand for a second, measuring the consequences of doing so, before deciding to take a plunge. He clasps her hand back, noting the callouses on her fingers as he does so. "I'm Stiles. Stilinski."

"Is that a nickname?" Allison snorts despite herself, before immediately looking furious with herself. Her hands clap over her moth with a gasp, and Stiles can't help the laugh that escapes him.

"Of course. No one can pronounce my real name. Except me. And my mom."

"Who does that to their kid?"

Stiles shrugs. "It's my granddad's name, I think."

"Well, we match," Allison says with another smile. It's beginning to become infectious. "Alliterating initials."

"True."

It's then he realises his hand is still extended out, and he quickly lets it drop to his side. Silence reigns in the room. A crack sounds downstairs, suspiciously like skin on skin.

"Why are you in my room?" Stiles asks suddenly. He completely forgot to before.

"Oh!" Allison goes through the whole embarrassed and bashful routine again. "Um. Well- my parents are the ones arguing with your mom? They told me to find you, to let them talk alone. So, here I am."

She throws up her arms in a helpless gesture, and after a moment Stiles lets himself relax, once again crawling onto his bed to lean out against the window sill. He beckons Allison over when she stands still, looking confused.

She gasps the moment she catches sight of the flames. The light glints and flickers a reflection in her eyes, and she seems mesmerised by their intricate dance.

"What's happening?" she asks, and Stiles is momentarily taken back by the...awe in her voice. Fire fascinates him, always has - the way it moves, the way it looks, the way it feels - but most people find it horrifying and terrifying and disgusting. All of those are in her tone, too, just as they're in his thoughts as well. It's one thing to spark flames; it's another thing entirely to murder a whole family.

An involuntary shudder runs down his spine as he tries to imagine what must be going on inside that house right now, and it makes his head spin.

"It's the Hale house," he explains eventually, in what can only be described as a reverent whisper. He points in the distance, and from their perspective his fingers seem to brush the flames.

"Who are the Hales?"

"They've lived on the preserve as long as anyone can remember. Lots of money, keep to themselves."

"Why would someone want to kill them?"

Stiles shrugs, letting his arm fall. "I don't know. Old family, old enemies- maybe. It could be an accident." He doesn't know who's less convinced out of the two of them.

"Allison?" A low, rough voice speaks from beside the door, and Stiles flinches. He was so caught up in the scene by the window that he didn't even notice someone coming.

The man is clearly Allison's father, with the same bright blue eyes, but there's a heavy weight to his shoulders where Allison is all light and floating that suggests weariness, and a clenched jaw that speaks of recent pain and grief.

His suspicions about the talk between his mother and Allison's parents are all the more confirmed.

"It's time to go."

Stiles glances the clock - it's been about half an hour since the Argents arrived. He hadn't realised how long the two of them simply stared at the fire, soaking in the light and grief and heat. The fire feels as if it's nestled itself in his chest.

"Can I see Stiles again?" Allison asks, hands reaching to grip his momentarily. Her fingers are a cold chill against his skin.

Suddenly, Stiles _does_ want to see Allison again. She interests him in a way most people fail to, even in the short amount of time they've been acquainted. And he really wants to know what her parents and his mother have to do with the fire.

"Definitely," he says, before anyone else can get a word in. He shoots her a grin, deliberately avoiding the judgemental, evaluating gaze her father is scanning him with.

"I guess so, then," the older man nods eventually. Stiles watches as some of the tension seems to seep from the his figure. "It's late, Allison. We need to go."

"It was nice to meet you, Allison." He backs up, once again towards the window. The light of the fire flickers shadows against his face.

"You too, Stiles." The smile Allison flashes him as she's being dragged down the hall lights up her whole face, imprints itself on his eyelids. He waits, watching until she's completely out of sight. Listens for the exchange of short, tense conversation downstairs, then the slam of the front door.

He goes back to watching the flames.

* * *

 **Thinking of writing two versions of this story, because this one is becoming drastically different to the original plan...Thoughts?**

 **Please review, it's feeds me muse! :)**


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